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There was only the cemetery itself, spread out in the moonlight like a soft grey hallucination, a stony wilderness of Victorian melancholy.

Audrey Niffenegger

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Audrey Niffenegger
Age: 61
Born: 1963
Born: June 13
Artist
Author
Novelist
Poet
Science Fiction Writer
University Teacher
Visual Artist
Writer
South Haven
Michigan
Grey
Melancholy
Wilderness
Stony
Soft
Hallucination
Spread
Hallucinations
Like
Victorian
Cemetery
Moonlight

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My reflection in the mirror shows me pink and puffy. I thought pregnant women were to supposed to glow. I am not glowing.
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In the dim light of the computer screen he seemed otherworldly Julia thought him beautiful, though she knew it was the beauty of damage.
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I hate to be where she is not, when she is not. And yet, I am always going. - Henry deTamble
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Think for a minute, darling: in fairy tales it's always the children who have the fine adventures. The mothers have to stay at home and wait for the children to fly in the window.
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The engagement ring is an emerald, and the dim light from the window is refracted green and white in it. The rings are silver, and they need cleaning. They need wearing, and I know just the girl to wear them.
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There is only one page left to write on. I will fill it with words of only one syllable. I love. I have loved. I will love.
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Every minute of his life since then has been marked by her absence, every action has lacked dimension because she is not there to measure against. And when I was young I didn't understand, but now, I know, how absence can be present, like a damaged nerve, like a dark bird.
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Sometimes I'm happy when he's gone, but I'm always happy when he returns. -Clare
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Everything seems simple until you think about it.
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When the woman you live with is an artist, every day is a surprise.
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She looks up at me, still rocking. “Henry . . . why did me decide to do this again?” “Supposedly when it’s over they hand you a baby and let you keep it.” “Oh yeah.” --Wednesday, September 5, 2001
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Chaos is more freedom in fact, total freedom. But no meaning. I want to be free to act, and I also want my actions to mean something.
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Our love has been the thread through the labyrinth, the net under the high-wire walker, the only real thing in this strange life of mine that I could ever trust.
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Home sweet home. No place like home. Take me home, country roads. Home is where the heart is. But my heart is here. So I must be home. Clare sighs, turns her head, and is quiet. Hi, honey. I'm home. I'm home.
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Maybe I'm dreaming you. Maybe you're dreaming me maybe we only exist in each other's dreams and every morning when we wake up we forget all about each other.
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Mama said, Dreams are different to real life but important too.
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It's hard being left behind. (...) It's hard to be the one who stays.
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I feel that I an everything to her.
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we both smile and we are conspirators.
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